Where he—who in the mortal head, [C] Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace The soul's vast features, that shall tread The stars, when earth is nothingness?
Where he—who struck old Albyn's lyre, [D] Till round the world its echoes roll, And swept, with all a prophet's fire, The diapason of the soul?
Where he—who read the mystic lore, [E] Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep; And dared presumptuous to explore Secrets four thousand years could keep?
Where he—who with a poet's eye [F] Of truth, on lowly nature gazed, And made even sordid Poverty Classic, when in his numbers glazed?
Where—that old sage so hale and staid, [G] The "greatest good" who sought to find; Who in his garden mused, and made All forms of rule, for all mankind?
And thou—whom millions far removed [H] Revered—the hierarch meek and wise, Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved, Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.
He too—the heir of glory—where [I] Hath great Napoleon's scion fled? Ah! glory goes not to an heir! Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!
But hark! a nation sighs! for he, [J] Last of the brave who perilled all To make an infant empire free, Obeys the inevitable call!
They go—and with them is a crowd, For human rights who thought and did, We rear to them no temples proud, Each hath his mental pyramid.
All earth is now their sepulchre, The mind, their monument sublime— Young in eternal fame they are— Such are your triumphs, Death and Time.